by Jo Haldeman
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Our return home jolts me back to reality. The flight is rough, and the airline loses our sixteen suitcases. A seven-inch rainfall yesterday left our house with no heat, no phone, a leaky roof, and a flooded basement. Southern California is declared a federal disaster area.
February 1969
With Bob at the White House, I take a greater interest in the international and national news. In the month of February, Yasser Arafat is acknowledged as leader of the Palestine Liberation Organization, and Golda Meir is sworn in as Israel’s first female prime minister. Tear gas is used to quell riots at the University of Wisconsin.
Bob plans to be home for our twentieth wedding anniversary on February 19, and I know exactly what I want to give him. To obtain that segment of the inaugural address that means so much to him, I enlist the help of Appointments Secretary Dwight Chapin.
At a black tie dinner party in our home, I give Bob the framed quote. Underneath a gold embossed presidential seal, Nixon’s uneven scrawl spreads across the White House stationery. With a pleased look, Bob stands and reads the memorable words out loud. “Until he has been part of a cause larger than himself, no man is truly whole…”
◆
President Nixon leaves on his first presidential trip abroad on February 23. During the two-week tour, he will meet with world dignitaries in Brussels, London, Paris, Bonn, Berlin, and Rome. Bob is responsible for the logistics. When he calls from London the night after arriving, I’m anxious to get his report on how everything is going.
“I blew it, Jo,” he says.
These are not words I ever expected to hear from Bob. He doesn’t often make a mistake and has never admitted to “blowing” anything.
“My alarm never went off yesterday, and I overslept.”
“Oh, Bob…”
“I missed the helicopter from the White House to Andrews Air Force Base, and they had to send a second chopper just for me. I boarded Air Force One with only two minutes to spare.”
“Did the president know you were late?”
“Yes. And, unfortunately, I had to walk right past him to get to my seat.”
“And…?”
“He gave me an icy stare and said, ‘Good morning.’ That was it.”
“That was it?”
I feel for Bob. He strives for perfection and is proud of his reputation as a manager. A recent newspaper article reported, “Haldeman’s mind goes lickety-split… [He is] a coordinator and technician, rather than a policy man…a highly efficient organizer.”
The Women Behind the Men
As soon as the president returns from his whirlwind tour of Europe, he flies to Florida for the weekend, and Bob goes with him. I’m glad that I haven’t moved to Washington yet, since Bob doesn’t seem to be spending much time there. Eager to see him, I accept invitations to two White House parties in March. While I’m in DC, Bob and I will look at houses, and I will research schools for Hank, Peter, and Ann.
March 1969
On Friday, March 14, I check into the Jefferson Hotel, where Bob is temporarily residing. In the living room of his suite, I’m greeted by a huge arrangement of spring flowers with a handwritten card from him. Although the hotel is only four blocks from the White House, a driver takes me to the West Wing to meet Bob for dinner. He greets me at the side door, and we continue down the hall of the ground floor to the White House Mess. The simple, cheerful dining room has no windows but is well lit. Fresh flowers are on the tables, which are covered with white tablecloths. The waiters are navy stewards. Bob seems very much at home, speaking to people and calling the stewards by name. I don’t recognize anyone, but I know everyone is important. I feel special.
The next day, I join Bob at the White House again. As I follow him up the back stairs to his office, he tells me that the Nixons plan to redecorate. Working with architects, decorators, and interior designers from Williamsburg, Mrs. Nixon is in charge of the Oval Office, and Bob is responsible for the rest of the West Wing.
“It’s going to be terrific,” he says, pointing to piles of paint chips and fabric samples spread out on his desk. “Antiques in the Oval Office, and quality reproductions for the staff.”
In the evening, Bob and I attend two different functions. While he dresses for the Gridiron dinner, where members of the administration are traditionally roasted by the press, I dress for Mrs. Nixon’s dinner honoring the White House wives. This is new to me, and the protocol is intimidating. I wish Bob were going to be at the White House with me. I ask him for advice.
“Just follow the other ladies,” he says. “Do what they do. I’m sure you won’t be the only one there for the first time.”
Dressed in white tie and tails, Bob leaves first. When the zipper in the back of my dress gets stuck, I have to ask the doorman to zip me up. A White House car takes me to the south entrance of the White House, where we wait in a long line of government “limos” that look exactly like our black Mercury sedan. We inch ahead. Then suddenly my door is opened by a uniformed White House social aide. Stepping out of the car, I silently repeat Bob’s words like a mantra.
“Follow the ladies. Do what they do. Just follow the ladies. Do what they do.”
Swept up in a steady stream of elegantly dressed women, I enter the Diplomatic Reception Room. Expecting to see others who are obviously here for the first time, I’m disappointed. No one looks lost. For a brief moment, I feel terribly alone. I check my fur stole, and as I start to climb the stairs to the Entrance Hall, a woman breezes past me.
“Isn’t it fun to be here without your husband for a change?” she asks in a bubbly, enthusiastic voice.
“Sure is,” I reply, attempting to sound blasé.
Halfway up the red-carpeted stairs, an attractive woman with reddish hair taps me on the shoulder. “Would you mind zipping me up?” she asks, pointing to the back of her dress. “Gerry had to leave before I finished dressing this evening.”
I smile. I’m happy to help her. When I discover that the woman is Betty Ford, wife of Representative Gerald Ford, I realize that sometimes it makes no difference who you are or where you are—certain situations are universal.
On the upper landing, I’m given a card with my dinner table number on it. I’m delighted to find that I am seated next to Julie Eisenhower. Effervescent and gregarious, Julie is a good hostess at our table for eight. As she talks, she gestures a lot, and her dark hair bounces on the shoulders of her white lace dress. When the army’s Strolling Strings pause at our table to play “Lara’s Theme” from Doctor Zhivago, I get goose bumps. The feeling of being surrounded by twenty violinists playing my favorite song in the State Dining Room of the White House is surreal. The only thing missing is Bob.
After dinner, coffee is served in the main hall, where I notice a stately, older woman standing alone. Sensing that I’ve finally discovered someone else who might be here for the first time, I introduce myself.
“I know who you are, my dear,” the woman says, extending her right hand. “I’m Mrs. Warren.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say. “Is your husband part of the Nixon White House?”
“No, dear, he’s the chief justice of the Supreme Court.” Mrs. Warren smiles pleasantly and drifts away.
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In order to give more people access to the White House, President and Mrs. Nixon have introduced “White House Church,” a nondenominational Sunday service, and “Evenings at the White House,” occasional celebrity performances, which are held in the East Room.
On Sunday morning, Bob and I attend White House Church. A raised platform and rows of gold-backed chairs have been set up in the East Room. The service today will be conducted by the minister of a Presbyterian church in California, and the Washington Cathedral Boys Choir will be performing.
Guiding me to the last row of seats, Bob explains that he wants to keep a low profile a
nd plans to remain in the background at White House events. I understand this but am confused when he immediately leaves me to socialize with other guests.
This evening, we return to the White House for a surprise fifty-seventh birthday party for Mrs. Nixon, who thinks that the president is giving a stag dinner. As soon as we enter the main hall, Bob and I are separated. He is told to mingle with the men, and I am directed to hide in the East Room with the wives. I huddle in a corner with a group of women I have never met. Across from us a large portrait of Martha Washington hangs on the wall. My heart is beating excitedly, and I can’t believe where I am and what I’m doing. As soon as the US Marine Band strikes up the first notes of “Happy Birthday,” it’s our cue, and we rush out and shout, “Surprise!”
While waiting to go down the receiving line, Bob and I chat with Henry Kissinger. According to protocol, the White House chief of staff outranks the national security advisor, so we precede Henry. When Bob greets the president, once again I’m fascinated by their brief, impersonal exchange. Now it’s my turn.
Extending his hand, the president asks, “Got a handle on that drinking problem yet?” He looks pleased with himself for making such a clever remark.
“I’m working on it,” I reply. Giving a lighthearted laugh, I move on to greet Pat and the girls.
The State Dining Room is set up for an informal dinner with ten round tables of eight. Bob is at one, and I’m at another. We are again serenaded by the army’s Strolling Strings, who are playing Mrs. Nixon’s favorite show tunes. When a green and white St. Patrick’s Day ice cream cake is brought in for dessert, the violinists switch to a round of “Happy Birthday,” and everyone sings.
The president stands to give a toast, but Pat stops him. She asks him to wait until she blows out the single candle on top of the cake. She blows, we clap, and Nixon stands again. He raises his wine glass.
“I would like to ask Mamie to give the toast to Pat,” the president says and sits down.
There’s a frozen smile on Pat’s face, and from what I can tell, Mamie Eisenhower is caught off guard. I feel for both women.
“To a great friend and girl,” Mamie says and sits down.
Two old friends of Nixon each toast the president, but neither one mentions Pat. The president beams and stands once again. “A toast to everyone with March birthdays, and to St. Patrick,” he says.
The situation is awkward, and I’m embarrassed. This is the perfect opportunity for the president to acknowledge his wife’s love and support through the years. Now that the two of them are at the summit of his career, she deserves to be recognized in her role as first lady.
When Rose Mary Woods stands, I’m afraid to look. Instead, I study a tiny piece of braised celery clinging to the edge of the tablecloth. She raises her glass.
In a strong, clear voice, Rose gives her toast. “To the woman behind the man.”
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After spending hours looking at houses, Bob and I find one we like in Kenwood, a residential section of Chevy Chase, Maryland. The pretty colonial home has six bedrooms, and with its tall, white columns and long front porch, it reminds us of our home in Hancock Park. Although the lawn is brown and the dogwood trees and azaleas are bare, our real estate agent assures us that soon the garden will look like a fairyland.
Air Force One
The week is over, and it’s time for me to return to California. I have a ticket on a United flight, but I gladly forfeit it when Bob invites me to join him on Air Force One. We will be traveling with the president and first lady on their trip to the West Coast, which I can hardly believe. What an extraordinary way to wrap up my visit to Washington.
First thing on Friday morning, March 21, a White House driver takes me from the Jefferson Hotel to the ground floor entrance of the West Wing. Showing my new, laminated photo ID card to the White House guard, I enter the building. This time, Bob is not here to greet me, and I’m on my own. Climbing up the back stairs, I methodically count each of the seventeen steps to the first floor. A secretary gives me a friendly nod as we pass in the hall, and it’s reassuring. Although I’m no longer intimidated by these surroundings, I know that I will never cease to be in awe of actually being here.
When Pat McKee, Bob’s secretary, tells me that he’s with the president in the Oval Office, it sounds unreal. I still find it hard to comprehend that Bob is chief of staff of the White House. I wonder if I ever will.
I hear the choppy rumble of a helicopter as it lowers itself onto the South Lawn, and forty-five minutes later, I’m escorted out to it. From my assigned seat in the rear, I watch as the others climb aboard. The last two people to appear are the president and Bob, who are deep in conversation and seem oblivious to the cold. The minute the president takes his seat, the door is closed, and Marine One noisily lumbers skyward. Banking to the right, we pass directly over the National Mall. Not far below us, sunlight glints off the Washington Monument and the Capitol. A full Fourth-of-July view. Gripping Bob’s arm, I puff up with pride.
Six minutes after taking off, the chopper sets down at Andrews Air Force Base next to Air Force One. Actually, the Boeing 707 is technically “Air Force One” only when the president is on board. President and Mrs. Nixon enter through a door in the front, which opens into the presidential lounge area. Bob and I climb the stairs in the rear with the rest of the traveling party. Nudging me along the aisle, he tells me that the rear section is reserved for the Secret Service and a rotating group of eight members of the press.
The twelve seats in the next compartment are for the cabinet, senior White House staff, government officials, and visiting dignitaries. The first two seats on the right have cards with our names on them. I’m excited, but I try to act calm and collected as a steward in a wine-colored blazer welcomes us aboard. The flight information card he hands me shows that we will be making a stop in Missouri in two and a half hours. Across the aisle, Secretary of State Bill Rogers greets us. His wife, Adele, holds up a needlepoint she is working on and explains that her goal is to make a seat pad for every chair in the Reception Room at the State Department.
Not long after takeoff, Bob excuses himself to go up front to a staff work area, which is next to the president’s lounge. When he returns, John Ehrlichman and Henry Kissinger are with him. The three of them are wearing personalized Air Force One flight jackets. There is a lot of teasing and joking between them, and soon Henry is regaling us with stories about his experiences as a foreign policy consultant during the Kennedy administration. In a low, gravelly voice and thick German accent, he describes one of his lunches in the White House Mess.
“My knife slipped when I was cutting my lamb chop,” he says. “The chop sailed across the table and landed on Dean Rusk’s plate.” Everyone laughs.
“But,” Henry adds, with perfect timing, “there’s more. The secretary of state proceeded to eat it.”
We make a brief stop in Kansas City, Missouri, for the president to deliver to Harry Truman the Steinway piano that was in the White House during his presidency. An admirer of Truman, Bob is excited to be part of the small group accompanying the president. Clutching his movie camera, he boards the helicopter while the rest of us wait on the plane. When he returns, Bob is beaming.
“That was an amazing experience,” he exclaims. “And I was even able to film the president playing a few bars of the ‘Missouri Waltz’ while Truman looked on.”
Say “Cheese”
Late in the afternoon, we approach Point Mugu Air Weapons Station, fifty-five miles south of Santa Barbara. Looking down on the rolling surf and the sage green hillsides, I can almost smell the salty beach air mixed with the pungent aroma of eucalyptus. The scene is a familiar one. For Bob and me, this is home.
After landing, Bob points to a cluster of soldiers in battle fatigues standing off to the side of the runway. He explains that they are Seabees who have just returned from active duty in Vietnam. The
president looks proud as he shakes the hand of each man, and I wonder what his thoughts are as their commander in chief. I’m honored to be here with them, and at the same time, I’m upset that the country isn’t more united in giving them the support that they deserve. This war is tearing us apart, and our soldiers have become the biggest losers.
When Nixon took office two months ago, there were 550,000 US troops in Vietnam, and 300 men were being killed each week. He stated that his first priority as president was to obtain a lasting peace with honor. I hope he can accomplish this.
After reviewing the troops, President and Mrs. Nixon board a helicopter to view a potentially disastrous oil slick in the Santa Barbara Channel and then continue down the coast to San Clemente. They will spend the night at the Cotton estate, which they are considering buying. The one-story, Spanish-style house is on twenty-six acres with a lot of privacy. Located next door to a Coast Guard station, it would make an ideal Western White House.
Bob and I remain on Air Force One with a few other members of the White House staff. Our final destination is El Toro Marine Base near San Clemente, and I can hardly wait to get off the plane. I’m exhausted and would love to head straight for Bay Island, but Bob wants to check out the Cotton house before the Nixons arrive. As soon as our bags are transferred, Bob and I take off in a car from the motor pool.
Heavy black clouds hang over the hills in the distance, and by the time we reach San Clemente, it’s raining hard. Turning off the main road, Bob proceeds up a long, gravel driveway. We park in the turnaround area near a grove of towering eucalyptus and palm trees. Sharing an umbrella, the two of us scurry over to the entrance. We are so close to the ocean that I can hear the waves breaking.
